Becoming
by FormerlyLBG
Summary: Being replaced elsewhere...
1. Chapter 1

Mid-morning, and the castle walls reverberated with the sounds of a full scale attack.

A girl can be seen running out from one of the massive entry doors, screaming like a banshee. She is seven, maybe eight years old, with ash blonde hair streaming out behind her as she dashes along. Her dress, a delicate shade of pale blue, and finely made. Following after, and slightly less enthusiastically, is a boy teetering on the brink of becoming a man. His face bears an expression that conveys a million words, but which can be summed up in just two: Older Brother.

They are not, in fact, pursued by ravening hordes intent on death and destruction. Instead, they are the sole cause of the shouting, screaming, clashing of weapons and general ruckus with which Castle Cousland now finds itself caught in the middle of. Though it might be said they _are_ reasonably intent on the destruction aspect.

To this end, the young girl carries a sturdy wooden sword that she's stolen from her brother, and a metal cooking pot balanced precariously on her head to serve as a helmet. A careful observer would also notice that the lovely dress she is wearing has a rather glaring rip in it, and the skirts are caked in what appears to be mud. There might be some grass mixed in there too, but it's mostly mud. Older Brother has come off lighter in the mud-covered-clothing stakes, but it does seem like his feet are making a definite squelching noise, almost as if they've been dunked in a puddle. He also carries a wooden weapon, only he has a round shield to match as well. There is what looks like a chicken painted on it by childish hands, which might charitably be called a griffon by doting parents who turn a blind eye to such things.

"Come on, Fergus!" She stops and turns round, to make sure he's still in tow. The boy, Fergus, is valiantly bringing up the rear, but she can see he's losing interest in her game, and balls her fists up on her hips as best she can. "We'll never find the prince if you can't keep up." She sticks a small pink tongue out at him and pulls a face, because whilst the tales always tell of the fair maiden being locked away in a tower somewhere, she sees no reason why there shouldn't be princes too, if you look hard enough. After all, they always turn up when they're needed, so they have to be _somewhere_.

Her brother finally catches up to her, wrinkling his nose. "Huh, no prince'll want to marry you if you go round looking like _that_."

She stamps her foot with more than a hint of melodrama. "I'm gonna marry someone who's strong and brave and clever and a knight! Like… Like Gilmore! He's gonna be Ser Gilmore when he grows up, you know!"

Fergus scoffed at her dramatic proclamation. "Little sister, whoever marries you is going to have to be the bravest man in all of _Ferelden_." He thinks about this for a moment before adding "Maybe even Thedas."

The irony goes straight over her head, which to be fair to her isn't hard, as she doesn't even reach up to his shoulder yet. "And I'm gonna be a soldier just like you and I'll protect him from the dragons!" She makes a few dragon-slaying swipes with her sword, as if to emphasise the point. The heroic illusion is spoiled somewhat by her makeshift helmet slipping forward, over her eyes. She doesn't think the knights in her story books ever had to contend with this kind of equipment failure.

"You'll protect _him_? Hah, he'll need protecting from _you_, more like. Bet he'd have to sleep in his armour."

Her face twists into a pouty scowl as she contemplates what he's just said. It takes a few seconds for it to sink in, which she uses to push her helmet back up, then she reaches a decision and thwacks him solidly on the knee with her wooden weapon.

"Hey!" Fergus drops his equipment and takes to hopping. "See?"

She tries to give him a few more hits for good measure, but he's on to her now and dances out the way, still clutching his already wounded parts.

"Fergus! Elissa! What in the name of the Maker are you doing?"

At the sound of a deep, masculine voice of authority, both fearless fighters jump to attention. Standing behind them is none other than Bryce Cousland, Teyrn of Highever and more importantly to the would-be dragon slayers right now, their father.

Startled by his sudden appearance, the girls' sword joins her brothers on the ground. It's difficult to maintain your dignity when you're wearing one of Cook's saucepans on your head, but she does her best under the circumstances.

"Trying to find a prince and rescue him from the dragon" she says, as if this explains everything.

The Teyrns' eyebrow raises in mock surprise as he struggles to keep a straight face. "Dragon, you say?" Amusement plays across his features as he considers the pair and their rather messy state. He's normally a serious man, but his children have always brought a lighter side to his life to balance the weight of his position. "Well, I don't think I've seen one of those around here."

She seems a little crestfallen about this.

"There might be a handsome prince though" he confided , and her eyes light up once more as he ruffles her hair gently. "But… You have to go to your lessons first, pup. Then you can go and look for him. And for the love of Andraste, go and change before your mother sees what you've done to that dress." He turns his attention to her stalwart dragon hunting companion. His tone regains some of its' usual crispness as he turns to his son. "As for you, Fergus… You and I are going to the training grounds. On the way, you can entertain me with the story of how your sister talked you into this. Again."

Pulling one last face at her brother, the little girl picks up her wooden sword, trailing it behind her as she walks, and becomes…

…A young woman, striding confidently across the courtyard. She is dressed in leather armour that, whilst well worn, is obviously also well cared for. Grudgingly she might have to admit that she'd asked the armourer to pull it in a little round _here_, and give it a bit more lift up _there_… Because whilst she may wear the sword strapped to her back with the air of one who knows how to use it, she is still an attractive, single woman in her early twenties and sometimes it's nice to let other people know about it.

She spots two men at the other end of the yard, and immediately homes in on them, pleased to see one is her father and that she can now answer his summons. She is somewhat less pleased to note that his companion is Arl Rendon Howe, from Amaranthine. A momentary worry ripples through her.

The trouble with other people noticing what her armour brought attention to was that sometimes other peoples' parents noticed it too, and that tended to raise the ugly question of why she wasn't married yet. Whilst Howe was no doubt here to join his troops to those of House Cousland, she wonders if the nobles might also see this meeting as an ideal time to seal her future while they're at it. She rather hopes not. She knows that it is just a matter of time; that sooner or later she will have to accede to her parents wishes to see her settled, but for now she prefers the freedom that remaining out of wedlock allows her.

The two are deep in conversation as she approaches, obviously discussing the forthcoming battle at Ostagar and reliving old campaigns. She doesn't want to disturb their reminiscing by barging in, so waits patiently until the Teyrn notices her.

"Ah, I didn't see you there, pup." He apologises, before turning back to the Arl next to him. "You remember my daughter?"

Howe inclines his head in deference, though she can feel his eyes sizing her up even so. The unease she is already feeling decides to take up a permanent residence in her gut. Marvelous. "I see she's become a lovely young woman" he smarms. "Pleased to see you again my dear."

But this is politics, and if there's one thing her family has taught her over the years, it is to show the utmost respect to those around you, even if your skin feels like it's about to crawl off into a corner without you.

"And you, Arl Howe."

A self-satisfied leer crosses his face, though she's sure that only she notices it. "My son Thomas asked after you, perhaps I should bring him with me next time?"

"I'd like that." Politics again. She met Thomas a while ago, and whilst he seemed a pleasant enough man, he completely failed to pique her interest even in letting him take her to the bedroom, let alone the altar. Bland, bland, bland. Still, she's fended off proposals before, and she will do so again. Being rude to Howe might be tempting, but she cannot afford the animosity it would cause. Besides, with the prospect of a good fight looming on the horizon, she knows there will be precious little room in men's' thoughts for conquests of love. Which suits her down to the ground.

"At any rate pup, I summoned you for a reason. While your brother and I are both away I'm leaving you in charge of the castle."

"I'll do my best, Father."

It is as he is explaining her duty, something she feels is really rather unnecessary, that she notices a third man heading over to them. Eyeing him curiously, she can see that this is a warrior - he reminds her of a bird of prey, a hawk waiting to strike. She can't shake the feeling that there is nothing his keen gaze doesn't take in. It is a little unnerving, but somehow… intriguing.

There is a momentary stab of jealousy when she discovers that the man is a Grey Warden, here for Ser Gilmore. Her mind rages at the injustice of it all. Both father and brother off to fight in the South with the King, Gilmore to be recruited into the Wardens, as elite a fighting force as ever there was, and what of her? She is to remain behind. It rankles that she is just as good with a sword as Fergus, maybe better some say, yet it seems her destiny is to be cooped up in the castle, hiding behind her own skirts until she is married off to someone's' son.

"If I might be so bold, I would suggest that your daughter might also be an excellent candidate." The words bring her up short, and she can't conceal the look of surprise and yes, pride, that crosses her face.

That pride is soon evaporated, as the Teyrns' voice becomes hard. "Honour though that might be, this is my daughter we're talking about." And she knows that it is just another dream. Another wish, another fantasy best left to the stories.

She'd love to talk to the Warden, Duncan, but again she is sent off with errands. And because she is a dutiful daughter, she will perform them to the best of her ability. Inwardly she sighs as she takes her leave. She loves her parents very much, but sometimes, wouldn't it be wonderful if…

oOo

It is later, much later.

She is roused from her slumber by the barking of her hound, and she scowls in irritation. She shifts a little to see what's bothering him, trying not to disturb the sleeping form next to her. She allows herself the faintest of smiles. Like Thomas, she's met Dairren before as well, but unlike Howe's' son, she finds that she enjoys his company. He is perceptive enough to tell that she has no enthusiasm for their parents attempts at matchmaking, but sufficiently attracted to go about attempting to persuade her otherwise. Of course, this is not something she will be sharing with her parents.

She is distracted from her thoughts as the mabari growls again, a low, threatening rumble. Then all she can hear are screams. Cries. The sickening sound of arrows piercing flesh. And blood; so much blood.

Her dreams, and her nightmares, all come true at once.


	2. Chapter 2

It takes several weeks to reach Ostagar and the Wilds from the northern province of Highever. She does not cry the entire journey; she barely even talks unless she has to. Duncan is astute enough to leave her to her thoughts for the most part, something for which she is profoundly grateful. Not that those thoughts are a pleasant place to be right now.

The first few nights out of the castle, it is the faces that come to her as she sleeps.

Brave Ser Gilmore marshalling what remains of the Cousland soldiers to hold the gate, knowing full well that his life was now measured in mere minutes. The look he casts her way as he commands her to run speaks volumes. She knows he was in love with her - she wishes she could have returned the feeling, but as she grew up she realised it was not going to happen that way. That doesn't stop the melancholy though, the regret at what can never be. He was supposed to be the one travelling with Duncan now, not her…

Oriana and Oren, cold and lifeless on the stone floor. Maker, but their sightless eyes haunt her. And the blood. Who would have thought that such small bodies could have so much blood in them? She will have to tell Fergus, if he is even still alive, and she doesn't relish that prospect in the slightest. Fergus! Has he made it to Ostagar safely or have Howe's men ambushed and killed him too?

But most of all it is her parents, Eleanor and Bryce Cousland. She sees them even now – father mortally wounded and mother standing defiant over him – sacrificing their own lives so that she might escape. It is the guilt weighing her down that makes it so hard to bear. She cannot help but think how she should have done more. If she had stayed behind, she could have defended them, saved them. Could she have dragged her father to safety? How can she reconcile that guilt with the knowledge that if she had stayed behind, then she too would have died at the hands of Howe and his men? And then there would be no Couslands at all, instead of just the one, shell of her former self though she might be. It is only their final words of love that give her the strength to put one foot in front of the other and keep moving.

She feels strangely detached as King Cailan meets them at the gates of Ostagar. She has not met him before personally, though she has been a quiet observer at the Landsmeet once or twice in the past. He strikes her as almost a caricature of what a King should be. Even on the battlefield he is all shining golden armour, immaculate hair, and perfect poise. The very personification of charm and gallantry, offended by the fact that so far an Archdemon hasn't come out to play with him.

As is her duty, she greets him politely, though she cannot keep the venom from her voice when she describes Howe's treachery against her family. In turn, he promises retribution - something she firmly intends to see him honour come hell or high water – and her back straightens a little once again, having taken the first step towards reclaiming her teyrnir. And then the relief, the blessed relief that floods through her as she finds out Fergus is still alive. It is tempered by the knowledge that he is out in the Wilds, but the fact that she is not the last of her line is almost overwhelming.

The next few minutes pass almost in a daze. Duncan issues a few instructions before he departs, most of which she acknowledges without truly listening, and she is left to her own devices for a while.

A cursory glance outlines much of the encampment, so she retreats to a wooded glen close to the outskirts in order to gather herself. Deep breaths… Until it all explodes from within. She shouts at the heavens. She curses the Maker. She swears dire revenge. Her sword appears in her hand, and strikes the trees repeatedly, punctuating each declaration of pain, all the things she could not do whilst under the watchful eye of Duncan. She screams and screams, until there is nothing left inside to give and her weapon hangs heavily in a limp grasp.

Leaning back against the ravaged oak, she feels drained but calmer now. The emotions of the past few weeks have coalesced into a coiled ball of rage within her, and it is becoming easier to think clearly.

Her parents may be gone, but they will always be a part of her. Neither one would want to see their beloved daughter reduced to a mute shadow of herself. No. They taught her the meaning of honour and duty, of doing the right thing, and she'll be damned if she lets them down now after all this. To do anything less would be an insult to their memory.

Honour demands she avenge her family and that the serpent, Howe, must pay for his crimes. He is already paying, though he may not yet know it. Both she and Fergus live, and as long as either continues to draw breath, Howe is only prolonging the inevitable. Highever _will_ return to Cousland hands and the traitor _will_ see justice.

Duty demands that she answer the King's call to arms, to take up the fight where her father cannot. To all intents and purposes, she is a Teyrna now, and she has responsibilities. Therefore her family shall continue to serve Ferelden as it always has done.

And as for doing the right thing…

How many times over the years has she longed for adventure? How often has she drifted off to sleep dreaming of becoming a hero, a general... Even a Warden? Now she has that chance, should she run and hide like a scared little girl, crying and whining because life isn't always fair? When she thinks about it, she would be foolish not to take opportunity where it presents itself, and Elissa Cousland considers herself many things but certainly not a fool.

Very well, she will do this.

oOo

Somewhere along the line, she has fixed in her mind the idea that all the Wardens in Ostagar would be of a similar mould to Duncan – stoic, grizzled veterans at least twice her own age. She isn't sure exactly where this assumption comes from - the vast array of legends, most likely. The thought that their ranks might contain those of a similar age to her hasn't even crossed her mind. And so it is that for a few moments, she is almost convinced that out of the two people standing before her in the ruin having what can generously be described as a heated discussion, it is the mage she is supposed to rendezvous with. At least, until he stalks off in a huff that would have done her proud ten years ago.

It can safely be said that she certainly isn't expecting someone like... _him_.

"You know... One good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together." He saunters over to her with the subtle suggestion of a smirk on his face, and for the first time in weeks she can feel a smile tugging at her own lips in spite of herself. He's taller than she first realised, and she finds that she has to tilt her head upwards slightly in order to look him in the eye.

"I know exactly what you mean..." Thoughts of the treacherous Howe seizing Highever's mobilisation against the Blight as a chance to attack are never far from her mind.

But the man in front of her is happily oblivious to her personal circumstances, and seizes the opportunity to wax lyrical on darkspawn and whether the combined might of the army holding hands would be an effective deterrent. She has to admit to being a little baffled.

Grey Wardens aren't supposed to be like this, are they? Only a few years older than she is, with a sarcastic streak a mile wide, ridiculously handsome in a boyish kind of way, and where in Thedas did _that_ thought come from? She decides to move on, quickly.

Luckily he takes a break from whatever tangent his mind had wandered off on to introduce himself as Alistair, the Warden who will be accompanying her and a couple of other recruits to the Wilds. She spies a sword and shield slung over his back, but notes them with a small amount of scepticism. He seems too happy-go-lucky, too flippant to be a serious fighter, let alone a Grey Warden.

She needn't have worried.

oOo

It might be days afterward, weeks or even mere hours, Elissa can't tell. Truth be told, she's not entirely certain what's up and what's down any more. What she _is_ certain of is that she's in bed, but equally, it's definitely not her own, and laughably that this is no position for a lady to find herself in. She groans a little, raising an unsteady hand to her temple. What's she doing here exactly? And while she's on the subject, just where _is_ here anyway? Involuntarily, her fingers flutter down to her shoulder, as if she's feeling for… something, she isn't sure what.

Mind you, some of the haze is clearing from her mind now, and she begins to realise that she's not as alone as she first thought. It is as she pushes herself up onto her elbows and focuses on the barbarically clothed and feathered figure in the room that the memories flood back in.

The Joining. The Tower. The darkspawn. The ogre...

_Oh Maker, the battle!_

Now she remembers. Her first battle, where despite the fact she and Alistair had been sent on what was supposed to be an easy task, fear had still managed to lodge itself in every pore of her body, knowing the horde of darkspawn were closing in. None of her training had prepared her for the grim reality of war – where even though the night had been chill, the field was hot and damp making her sweat beneath her leather armour as if she were out running in the midday sun. That fear turning to stark terror as the Tower guards emerged staggering, bleeding and crying out about monsters. She doesn't know how she managed to hold herself together through the climb to the top. Perhaps the years of practice in Highever had embedded the motions in her deep enough that she'd used them without conscious thought. Without that, and the occasional barked command from her Warden companion, she thinks she would have ended up like the rest of the guards – a meal for ravening darkspawn.

She knows she almost did, more than once. But this is when it gets hazy again, only sketchy details. They lit the signal beacon; she's sure of it; she remembers Alistair worrying they were too late. And after that, after…

The holes in Elissa's recollection are filled in by her erstwhile host, Morrigan, and the witch's words offer little in the way of comfort. She and her mother had been… curious by all accounts, since meeting the Warden recruits in the Wilds, and kept a watchful eye on the battle as it unfolded. Just as well, since Loghains' half of the army turned tail and marched away instead of joining with the Kings' force as planned. Cailan was overwhelmed, the army slaughtered. Even the Wardens were no more.

Bitterly she wonders if this is her destiny now – to be betrayed at every turn by those she thought she could trust. First Howe, now Loghain. A Blight on the doorstep, and everyone decides to devote their attention to anything _but_. Where would it all end? Was there one single person in this damnable world who was capable of keeping his word?

And to think she'd wanted this! She recalls her flaring anger when she'd thought everyone was going off to have fun without her, and it's almost enough to make her laugh. Oh, adventure sounded grand when it was happening to someone else, but so far all she's experienced has been death laced with fear, as well as a generous sprinkling of hysteria thrown in for good measure. All she'd managed to do was end up peppered with arrows as the darkspawn overran the Tower of Ishal. She rubs her shoulder again, the flesh feeling cool to the touch. It shouldn't, it was torn apart by a jagged barb.

She feels as if the universe is playing some kind of sick joke on her – first taking away her family, then the Wardens. She knows she's supposed to be strong, but she just can't do this, it's too much and she's alone _again_…

Except she's not quite, not yet. Morrigan implies that her mother was able to rescue one other.

Clutching at whatever hope she can find right now, she eases herself upright, and makes her way bleary-eyed to the door. Hand resting on the latch, she is about to open it, before a nagging feeling stops her.

"…Thank you, Morrigan."

They aren't easy words to speak, as she's finding it difficult to think of anything to really be thankful for, but an attachment to living is something that's hard to let go of. She doesn't see, but she can hear the slight surprise in the witchs' voice, as if she's not used to something as simple as a thank you.

Outside, the light is too bright for her eyes, though the position of the sun on the horizon shows it to be getting on for early evening. But she adjusts quickly, and steps towards the man standing by the swamp edge. It's Alistair.

He turns to face her, and in that moment she's sure she can see her own expression reflected in his. The tautness around his eyes, the depth of despair and loss echoing in them… Yes, she knows that all too well. She understands. She also remembers how frustrated he had been to discover he wouldn't be fighting on the front line, and can't surpress a wave of relief to know that because of the Kings' order, she has at least one person standing by her. It gives her the push she needs to decide to fight again.

But it's just the two of them, against seemingly insurmountable odds. An Archdemon. A horde of darkspawn. And the machinations of Loghain Mac Tir.

Actually… Better make that just the _three_ of them…


	3. Chapter 3

**Becoming– Chapter 3**

By the time the Wardens leave the refugee-filled village of Lothering, they've doubled in numbers. As well as the acerbic Witch of the Wilds, somehow Elissa has managed to acquire an elegant Orlesian lay sister from the local Chantry and an extremely taciturn Qunari prisoner. She's also been happily reunited with her mabari hound, who contrived to get out of Ostagar alive and track her down. It's not much of an army (though she thinks that in a pinch, Sten on his own might come pretty close), but she'll take whatever she can get right now.

As she sets about tending the remains of the fire for the night, she spots her other new arrivals setting up camp close by. Bodahn Feddic and his son Sandal are dwarven traders, and whilst they might not be leading the charge against the Blight, at the very least they are scurrying around behind it, harvesting any valuables that might have been dropped by previous, more careless, owners. When she agreed to their request to tag along behind, she thought she heard Alistair mutter something about placing a bet on whether the dwarf or the dog drooled more, but decided not to call him out on it. Besides, it was already a foregone conclusion; _clearly_ Dog had better table manners. In any case, the pair are handy to have around, knocking dents out of Alistair's armour as well as enchanting runes onto Elissa's dagger. Least they can do, they say. Her fellow Warden had readily agreed to that part – it was saving the dwarves from marauding darkspawn that had dented his pauldrons in the first place.

Such musings are interrupted by the sister plucking a lyre from her pack, and teasing a gentle refrain from its strings. The red-haired woman is something of an enigma to Elissa right now, making no claims to be anything other than what she seems, but the Warden can sense that there's more going on than meets the eye. Leliana is very happy to talk about her home of Orlais or her time in the Chantry, but there's a definite gap in the tales. More specifically, the period in between the aforementioned two places. Of particular interest is how a Chantry sister learned to fight quite as well as she does. When she'd interposed herself between the Wardens and Loghains men at the Lothering inn, it had been in the interests of keeping the peace. But when things turned nasty (as things seemed to have a habit of doing these days), Leliana had waded into the fray without so much as a second thought, and acquitted herself more than adequately.

Privately, Elissa wonders if the Orlesian is entirely… _there_. It's hard for her to put words to these feelings, but when Leliana asked to join her, explaining how a dream from the Maker had laid out her course of action… Well, if it hadn't been for the impressive way the sister helped dispatch the armed guards, Elissa would have been backing out the door and running full pelt for the next town before she could so much as blink. But the decision has been made, so it's no use fretting over it now. Besides, it's been an extremely long day and her head is starting to throb.

It doesn't help that Alistair and Morrigan have spent a large portion of the past few hours sniping at each other. Leliana's friends Peace and Love aren't getting so much as a look in.

In retrospect, pairing up an apostate mage with a former Templar and expecting them to be civil to one another might not have been the greatest idea in the world. Even when she physically separated them and walked in between, she could feel the looks being cast over her head, despite the silence. And then Morrigan had dispensed some sort of offhand, acid remark and it all kicked off again. Actually, it made almost grateful for Leliana's presence –it meant she wasn't going to be the only one stuck with the bickering.

Luckily for all concerned, Morrigan has taken to setting up her own private camp off to one side, preferring to keep her distance from the others. It is an arrangement that so far no-one has complained about. Elissa is trying hard to put in the effort and be friendly, but the Witch makes it very difficult sometimes. The Cousland children had been raised to help those less fortunate wherever they could, it being a nobles' duty to look after the commons. However every time she had pressed healing salves into a refugees hands, or slipped a coin to a lost waif, Morrigan had voiced her displeasure by varying degrees until she simply stalked away, claiming she would rather purchase reagents for her potions than give hand outs to grubby street urchins.

Elissa's attention moves to the other person still lurking round the campfire.

She doesn't claim to know him all that well yet, but it's clear to her that Alistair has been acting out of sorts for the past week, as they travelled through the Wilds towards Lothering. His seems like a face built for laughter, but he's barely cracked so much as a smile lately, let alone a joke. In fact he's hardly said much _at all_ and that is most definitely not the Warden she first met in Ostagar. Not that she's been looking at his face, of course. At least not _just _his face, since Alistair all over is pretty pleasing to look at... No. She's simply been studying him; after all, they're the only two Wardens left in Ferelden and they'll be travelling together for the foreseeable future. It's only natural that she wants to know if she'll get on with him. And she's been a little worried at how he's coping. She's glad she's cleared that up in her mind.

Morrigan naturally started needling him about retreating into his shell after Ostagar, but Elissa discreetly put a stop to that, recognising the same symptoms in him as she herself had laboured under not all that long ago. There are some things she does not yet understand; she too is staggered by Loghains betrayal and the annihilation of army, Wardens and King all in one fell swoop, but Alistair is taking it far worse than she is. Perhaps it's since he's been a Warden for longer. Perhaps it's because she is still reeling from what happened to her at Highever. Perhaps it simply hasn't sunk in yet. But she doesn't truly believe any of those explanations, which leaves her at something of an impasse.

Luckily though, the stop off in Lothering appears to have bolstered his spirits to the point where she is starting to see the old Alistair making a comeback. His snide asides are beginning to pop back into conversation, though the downside to this is he and Morrigan are exploring whole new ways to be unpleasant to one another.

Still, none of that stops a fountain of sympathy from welling up inside her for the pain of his loss, because she's been where he is now. Consequently she has done for him what Duncan did for her, and just let him work everything through in his own head before trying to confront him with any of it. She knows that he'll talk when he's ready to talk, and from what little she _has_ learned of him, once he gets going it's unlikely he'll ever be this quiet again. Privately though, she has missed the little quips he tends to toss into conversation. Even fighting for their lives up in the Tower of Ishal, he'd broken the tension a few times with an off the cuff remark and stopped her going completely crazy in the face of everything that was going on. And right now, she feels she needs all the help she can get not to step off the ledge and into the realm of crazy.

She hopes it gets easier from hereon in. Maker alone knows it couldn't possibly get any worse. Killing darkspawn… Well, it's not exactly pleasant, but darkspawn are monsters and the necessity of shortening their lifespan isn't up for debate. She knows the principles of sword fighting well enough – stick the pointy end in the bad guy until one of you falls over - it's when the bad guy isn't a hideous oozing creature but a real flesh and blood human being just like you that things start to take a turn for the icky.

Up until Lothering, she's only had occasion to fight the darkspawn. She's never before raised a blade against a _person_. Oh there'd been all her training at Highever, and she's sparred against plenty of her fathers' knights, but it's not the same. The odd nick, cut and scrape is hardly in the same league as watching someone's innards arrange themselves artistically all over your boots.

So yes, the bandits attacking them outside the village had come as something of a surprise.

She looks around at her companions, and marvels at how much better they seem to be able to deal with this than she is. Leliana barely blinks between one knife thrust and the next, Alistair and Sten look like they've been doing this their whole lives (which, she supposes, they probably have) and Morrigan practically has to be convinced _not_ to kill everyone she meets on sight. Realistically, she knows the score; those bandits would have killed her without hesitation for nothing more than the silver in her purse. But as her sword punched through armour and slid into the body beneath; when time slowed down and she watched the light fade from his eyes, it had been bloody hard to remember it was 'her or them'. When the group were finally felled, and the road was rapidly turning a fetching red colour, she had politely excused herself and gone behind the bandits' cart to be noisily sick. It didn't help much. Just added a few extra colours to the ground.

Alistair had shot her a sympathetic look as she emerged. Morrigan had just rolled her eyes impatiently.

She looks at him now, sitting on the other side of the fire, the dancing flames casting his face in a warm glow. He's polishing his sword, carefully removing any trace of vile darkspawn blood and examining the blade for imperfections. She can't supress a smile at his concentration. This little ritual is something he does at night; probably something he's done _every_ night for as long as he can remember, but the intensity with which he attends the task never ceases to intrigue her. It strikes a chord with what her father taught her when she started her own training - to always look after your equipment, and it will look after you. He would have approved…

A couple of things click into place in her mind as that thought passes through, snippets of conversation with Alistair from before the battle. 'Trained as a Templar in the Chantry' he'd said, 'Duncan saved me.' She taps a finger idly against her lips as she ponders.

Maybe he's ready to talk about what happened at Ostagar now after all.

oOo

She's woken in the early hours of the morning by screams of terror, and it's a good few seconds before she's lucid enough to realise that they're her own. Pinching her nose tightly and squeezing her eyes closed, she groggily sits up and tries to work out exactly what the hell is going on here. Some small part of her hind-brain unhelpfully pointing out that it'd be nice not to wake up confused and with an overwhelming sense of dread hanging overhead, because this has been happening rather a lot lately. A gentle pressure appears on her shoulder and that's the last thing she's expecting, so it causes her to jump almost out of her skin and flail about in a manner that's no doubt amusing to anyone watching.

Thankfully she's only performing to an audience of one. Alistair is backpedalling furiously, holding up his hands in mock self defence from where he'd been checking to see if she was alright. It might just be the murky morning light, but she swears she can see a faint flush appearing on his cheeks.

"Whoa! It's OK, I wasn't... I mean, I was only trying to..."

_Oh..._ Under virtually any other circumstances, she'd be laughing at how massively he's got the wrong end of the stick, but she's starting to remember exactly why she'd woken up screaming, and it's about as far from funny as she can imagine. She shakes her head and raises her own hand to indicate the misunderstanding.

"Sorry" she apologises, "you just startled me is all." Some of the mild panic begins to leech from his expression at her reassurance. "I was just..." She trails off, but Alistair is nodding as if he knows what she's thinking.

"Bad dreams, huh?"

Something of an understatement.

Bad dreams are what she'd had when she'd been six and had listened in to Fergus and his friends telling spooky stories at midnight. Or after she'd spent the day in the company of Thomas Howe and some over-enthusiastic parents. What she'd experienced tonight went way beyond 'bad'. It had all seemed so... _real_. She tells him this.

Alistair plonks himself down on the ground next to her and listens as she relates what she saw. She remembers darkspawn. Lots of darkspawn, far more than there'd been at Ostagar, crowded together and stretching as far as the eye can see. An immense shadow falling over them all, before all she can see is _dragon_. Huge, scaly and terrifying enough to make the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, even now. But over all of that, there is the voice. It's a sibilant hissing like no language she's ever heard before in her life, and she can't understand any of it even if she wanted to, but she knows that it _is_ a voice. She also knows that when she hears it, it presses all the buttons in her marked 'Primal Terror' to the point where she wants to hide under a rock until all the bad things go away.

Tentatively, Alistair replaces his hand on her shoulder, and this time she doesn't jump when he does so. Somehow it helps to take the edge off as he takes a deep breath and starts explaining exactly what it means to be a Grey Warden.

oOo

That edge returns about half an hour later.

"So let me get this straight" she says, checking things off on her fingers as she goes. "Refuse the Joining, and you'll die. Take the Joining, and you _might_ die. Survive the Joining, and you'll _definitely_ die."

"Pretty comprehensive so far."

She scowls before continuing. "You'll never get a decent nights' sleep again because of the dragon in your head; somehow you also have to kill this dragon, Maker alone knows how we'll do _that_. You'll get through a weeks' worth of food supplies in a single day and to top it all off, you're like a beacon to the darkspawn saying 'over here boys, come and get me'." She realises she ran out of fingers a while back. "Did I miss anything out?"

Alistair shrugs helplessly. "I guess if you're only going to look at the down side of the thing..." But he doesn't get very far before he's interrupted.

"And you _volunteered_ for this?"

He adopts an expression of studied incredulity to match her own. "After ten years in the Chantry? Who wouldn't?" This time his shrug is accompanied by a wry smile. "Technically speaking I didn't volunteer - Duncan had to use the Rite of Conscription to recruit me, but that was only because the Revered Mother keeps a death grip on all the Templars. When I was offered the choice of staying there or becoming a Grey Warden, I was packed and out the door before he'd even finished asking." The smile became a grin. "Frankly, I'd have happily gnawed off my own leg if it meant I didn't have to take those vows."

Elissa lets out a sigh. No wonder Warden recruits are kept in the dark until they survive the Joining. She's not mad at the Wardens for having these secrets, and she's not really mad at Alistair for being the messenger either. She's just tired, cranky and scared and right now it seems like it's just one thing after another. She _really_ hopes this gets easier.

Considering that so far, her army consists of an anti-social murderer, a religious fanatic armed with a lute, a Warden who keeps falling over his own feet and a witch who wants nothing more than to turn him into a frog, she's guessing the odds could be better.


	4. Chapter 4

Elissa has formed the opinion that whoever drew her map of Ferelden was a liar and a cheat, and as such she wants her money back.

The Wardens' plan of travelling across the country and enforcing the various treaties they possess to call for aid against the Blight is a sound one, which is lucky since it is also the only plan they've got. However, it's beginning to dawn on her that whilst the Tower of Magi looks close enough to Lothering on paper, when it comes to actually making the trip on foot, the distance is a whole different story. The blisters on her feet have blisters. She idly wonders if Sten could be persuaded to hold Bodahn Feddic upside down by his ankles and shake him until her silver falls back to earth. She could always ask.

The other idea which occurs is that perhaps she could save her feet completely, and ride to the Tower on the Qunari's shoulders. In fact, she manages to entertain herself for a good half hour, coming up with various harness, bridle and saddle arrangements for the taciturn warrior. She doesn't think she'll mention _this _one to him though. Sten brings many things to the group, but she reckons he left his sense of humour back in Par Vollen.

Luckily it's not all doom and gloom. The notoriously temperamental Ferelden weather has been giving them a let-up from its habitual state of enthusiastic drizzle, and they've only run into marauding darkspawn a few times since their departure from Lothering; small groups who are soon soundly beaten down. This doesn't stop her worrying though. She knows that she and Alistair are safe from the effects of darkspawn blood ('safe' taking on a whole new context these days), but that protection doesn't extend to their companions. Still…

Dog has found a new friend in Leliana, who in turn has a brand new audience for her stories. The mabari is quite happy to pad alongside her as she spins epic tales of battles or romance, in exchange for the odd stick being thrown or a sly treat from their rations. Sten prefers to walk behind them, ostensibly acting as a rear guard and all-round deterrent to passing bandits, but Elissa is of the opinion that secretly he enjoys hearing the bards' tales as much as Dog does.

Deprived for the time being of her favourite sport (mocking Alistair having been outlawed for a day or two), Morrigan has chosen to put her shape-shifting abilities to good use and scout out the terrain ahead of them. The witch effortlessly flits between human form, wolf and bird, briefly reporting back every few hours before roaming off again. Elissa has to admit that it's a talent that's coming in remarkably handy, though seeing the transformations first hand can be unsettling. She finds herself intrigued, and sometimes even a little jealous, wondering what it must be like to run through the forests or soar on the winds. When the Warden first enquires, Morrigan is as brusque and standoffish in her replies as always, but at the genuine interest in Elissa's face, she gradually reveals more about the magics she has learned from Flemeth.

For the most part, Elissa herself splits her time between listening in on Leliana's storytelling and talking with Alistair. Unless you happened to be an apostate mage from the Wilds, the young man is extremely personable and near on impossible not to like. She also finds he makes her laugh, a commodity she heartily appreciates considering there has been precious little to laugh about this past month.

She can't quite shake the feeling though that he's awfully familiar to her, but she has a good head for remembering people and is positive they've never crossed paths. Still, that doesn't stop the nagging feeling she gets every time she looks at him. Or the little voice that says she'd never in a million years forget meeting someone quite so...

_Anyway._

She was right about one thing – having recovered his sense of purpose and for all intents and purposes got his groove back, it's now exceedingly difficult to keep him quiet. She's noticed though that Alistair is exceptionally good at talking a lot whilst saying absolutely nothing. He doesn't do it all the time, but over the course of their travels it's something she's beginning to pick up on.

She's given him a thorough grilling about the Grey Wardens and he's willingly answered her constant stream of questions to the best of his ability. To be perfectly honest, she knows if she'd been on the receiving end of that particular barrage, she'd have taken it with considerably less grace than he has, and told her questioner to sod off long ago. Their biggest frustration is that he doesn't really know all that much more than she does. The extra months he's been a Warden have obviously furnished him with a broader knowledge of basic functions, avenues of communication, overall numbers and some of the less desirable aspects of the Order, but when it comes down to the finer details there's a lot that Duncan hadn't yet shared. Not least of all is how exactly one goes about killing an Archdemon, as neither of them thinks that politely asking it to leave is going to do the trick.

No, it was when she started asking about him personally that she hit a bit of a roadblock. He'd given up the basics – Chantry, Templar, Warden – easily enough, but every time she tried to delve deeper, he somehow manages to divert the conversation. He's very skilled at it. The first few times she never even noticed that whilst he'd talked and talked and brought a smile to her face, he'd never actually answered the bloody question.

She wonders where he got so good at this.

That's not the whole of it either. Though technically speaking he is the senior of the two Wardens, he's quite happy to take the backseat and defer to her decisions. She doesn't mind – issuing orders is something a Teyrns' daughter does without thinking, and she's been twisting Fergus round her little finger since she was three – she's just surprised more than anything. Most of the knights she knew at Highever would leap at the chance to be in charge, but not Alistair. He'll offer his opinion readily if asked, and he's voiced concerns about courses of action more than once, but otherwise for all intents and purposes, he's content to act as her second. It's like he's trying to fade into the background behind everyone else, which is quite a party trick for someone over six foot who looks like he stepped out of a book (one of the ones she'd kept under her bed and hoped her mother hadn't known about).

She'd quizzed him about that too, and asked whether he wanted to lead instead. But he'd just laughed and explained that unless they wanted to end up lost, dead or pant-less, it probably wasn't a good idea. Elissa chuckled along with him, because she has to admit that the mental image is quite an amusing one (especially when combined with that of a saddle-wearing Qunari), but she thinks he sells himself short a little. After all, it wasn't so long ago that he'd taken three very scared and confused Grey Warden recruits through the Wilds, and throughout he'd been calm, composed and disciplined. He'd even managed to stop Ser Jory from turning into a gibbering wreck. Well, at least for a while.

It's a different story when he gets a sword in his hand though. There's no hiding in the background going on if there's a fight to be had. Unlike her, Alistair favours sword and shield, preferring to get right up close and personal, using his size and strength to overpower whatever it is that's in his way. He professes not to have been the greatest student training in the Chantry, but Elissa decides early on that if that's the case, she's not going to be pissing any Templars off in the near future.

All of this aside though, she finds she honestly enjoys his company (not least because it takes her mind off just how many miles she's walked), and conversation becomes almost a game between them. She makes an inquiry, he deflects; she returns the shot and turns it back on him, giving as good as she gets. Her tactic seems to take him a little off guard initially, but he rallies well and soon enough they're trading quips back and forth.

"Did I say that? I meant I was raised by dogs. Big slobbering dogs." He nods sagely. "From the Anderfels."

Elissa is pleased that her voice doesn't betray her amusement. "That would explain the smell" she answers, straight faced. No amount of effort can keep the twinkle out of her eyes though. A glint that's mirrored in his own.

"Well I was eight before I learned you didn't have to lick yourself to get clean..."

A raised eyebrow gives away her amusement, but her perseverance pays off in the end. It's a strange feeling, as if she's scored a point, though her pleasure at wheedling some truth out of him is tarnished by the picture he paints.

The Couslands have always been a tight knit family, so she's shocked to hear about what passed for Alistair's childhood. Whereas hers was filled with love and the support of her parents, his was spent as a lonely orphan, taken in by Redcliffe's Arl Eamon when his mother died in childbirth.

Not that this extended to much beyond putting a roof over the boy's head. And gossip amongst the common folk being what it was, even this small mercy started tongues wagging about the possibility of him being the illegitimate son of the Arl. He wasn't, of course, but since when had anyone let truth get in the way of a good rumour? The problem only increased when his erstwhile guardian married; Eamon's new young wife had determined to put that kind of chatter firmly in its place by packing the now ten year old Alistair off to the Chantry to train as a Templar. He'd never had the chance to have a say in the path his own life took, and she starts to understand somewhat why he'd jumped at the opportunity to join the Wardens.

Her face obviously conveys just how appalled she is at the treatment he had to endure, but Alistair simply shrugs and gives her that annoyingly distracting smile. He's a lot more forgiving than Elissa thinks she would have been under the same circumstances. But she's got him to open up a little, and that's a good start.

In retrospect, things were going so well Elissa knows she should have guessed it was all about to take a serious nosedive.

oOo

_I'm in the Fade._

The realisation is slow in dawning, creeping up on her inch by inch. It's hard, as thinking is so difficult here, and whenever she tries to concentrate everything just skitters away from her. She knows she's in Weisshaupt, though she's equally positive she's never set foot in the place. How did she get to the compound again? But she's a Warden, which is right; and the Blight is defeated, which is right; and Duncan's alive, which is...

_Wait, what?_

Though she's clearly _here_ so it must be OK, because... Because why, exactly? She wishes her brain would just _work_.

It's Duncan himself who gives it away. The certainty that he's dead rings in her mind, and the calm, soothing words that spill from his mouth jar with all her memories of the Warden Commander. The Duncan she knew would never have been content with this tame existence, to allow himself to become so complacent. Gritting her teeth, she throws his assurances back in his face, desperately clinging on to all the things that her consciousness is trying to make her forget.

_I'm in the Fade!_

As her sword plunges deep into the Commanders' chest, her suppositions are set in stone – she doesn't believe there's any way she could have bested the real Duncan. Elissa watches grimly as the guise of the Grey Warden crumples to her feet before evaporating into the ether. A creature of the Fade? A figment of her imagination? She doesn't know for definite, but the memory of how she got here is one thing that is now unshakeable.

Unfortunately.

Possessed Templars. Blood mages. Abominations. Demons. None of it was quite how she'd been expecting the visit to the Tower to pan out. To walk in and find the place in such a state of abject chaos did little to buoy her hopes of walking out again alive, let alone gaining their aid in raising an army. However they had secured a little more help for the time being in the shape of an elderly Circle Mage named Wynne; caught between the Templar barricades and her own magically erected defences, she and a few others had been holding out a small pocket of resistance. Morrigans' assertion that what she saw didn't surprise her in the slightest had even Alistair shuffling his feet and conceding the point; further proof, if such were needed, that the Circle was in a very bad way indeed.

She remembers now that for every minute that passes here is time that her body – her real body – is back in the Tower, dying gradually as the demon leeches the life from it. Her eyes turn flinty, and she determines she will not go down like this. She hasn't survived Highever or Ostagar only to die at the hands of some _sodding_ creature from the _sodding_ Fade. She's going to kill that thing, she's going to get out of here, and then she's going to find whoever let the demon out and kick their sorry hides into next _week_.

Anger drives her to cut a swathe through the demons' realm, temporarily pushing out the fear as she grimly hunts down the others that have been pulled here.

Her other companions are trapped inside their own nightmares, just as she was. Leliana prays for absolution, trying to find the peace she so desperately longs for. Wynne is ridden by guilt and despair over all those in the Tower she couldn't save. It takes some fast thinking and even faster talking on occasion, but the hold over each is broken. Then she finds her fellow Warden.

Alistair's nightmare... Isn't a nightmare. It's more like a dream, and as she sees it, it breaks her heart. He's not surrounded by death or destruction, but by family; his family - a sister, her children, the family he never had growing up. It's so simple and he seems so content, that she almost can't bring herself to wrench it all away from him. Maker help her, she thinks she's going to cry.

_It's not real, you're in the Fade!_

Her lips tighten into a thin line. Steeling herself against the sight in front of her, she draws her sword and steps forward.


End file.
